


WBY - Cherry (a tale of woe

by wildblueyonder6



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 04:29:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10325615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildblueyonder6/pseuds/wildblueyonder6
Summary: Summary:  Winchester squared and Southern Comfort. Ass kicking. It’s a foregone conclusion right?





	

Okay. So I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. I’ve been known to kick up some shit and act a fool on more than one occasion. It’s usually all in good fun. No harm, no foul. I’m a hormonal teenager. My friends are hormonal teenagers. We live in a small town that Is smaller than a moth’s balls so sometimes we have to make our own fun. It’s the same all around little towns everywhere, but I sometimes don’t know where to draw the line in the giggles and grins department.

I blame that on my dad. And my cousin.

You have to understand a little about me and my family though.

First. I’m a Winchester. Yup, just like the rifle. And much like the rifle, I’m prone to go off half cocked. 

I live on almost 80 acres. Which means I have chores to do. Not like making beds and stuff but putting up fences and painting barns and mucking stalls. I mean, I still have to make my bed. I never quite get that. Why make a bed when you are just going to sleep in it again? But it’s one of the rules. Lord knows, this family has rules. So we have regular chores and farm chores and whatever else the Trio feels we need to do. That on top of homework and football and everything else. So I’m pretty much busy most of the time. So when I have some down time, I sometimes don’t handle it well. Let’s just say that my folks keep the downtime to a minimum, mostly because they don’t want to have to deal with the repercussions of bored Jamie Winchester.

Now the farm. 

We have horses. Dad’s black gelding, Max. My horse, Girl, my ancient pony Poe and a few others. A Catahoula Cur mix that is as big as Poe named Teague and a smaller, older mastiff/hound mix named Cooper. We have chickens that are a little belligerent and a rooster who routinely tries to disembowel anything but his hens. Even our cat, Godzilla, leaves Rooster Cogburn alone. 

That’s just the animals. 

Well, sometimes Gramps calls us animals but I really don’t think he means it. 

Which brings me to the rest of the family. My dad, Dean. My uncle, Sam. My cousin, River and my grandfather -the ultimate patriarch, John Winchester. 

We are hunters. Not the kind that hunt Bambi, although I do love some venison, but we hunt supernatural stuff. Oh, I know you may say that’s bullshit but I’m living proof it’s not. My grandfather taught my dad and uncle to hunt after his wife died at the hands of a demon.  
You heard me right. Yup, honest to God demon. 

See? When you routinely deal with ghosties and demons and things that go bump in the night, your perspective is a little skewed. 

Dad, Uncle Sam and Gramps taught me to hunt. When River joined our family, he learned too. It may seem strange that our family would put us in danger by fighting supernatural stuff, but the truth is, we are in danger. Just like everyone else, except as Winchesters, we have a bullseye on our backs. So collectively, they decided the best defense was offense and we learned to protect ourselves. That lead to actively going on the offensive and hunting baddies of all kinds. It’s kinda scary and kinda cool but the adults always have our backs on hunts. Both River and I are killer shots. Practice makes perfect, y’know. We also can salt and burn like nobodies’ business. Much like Uncle Sam, River is great at researching, although he’s gotten pretty damn awesome with a knife. They say don’t bring a knife to a gun fight and that’s true - but River? He can use a knife like a fuckin’ ninja. If I had a gun and he had a knife, well it could be a toss up as to who won the fight. I suppose the gun would win if distance was involved, but close up man to man (or maybe baddie to man) is River’s specialty. He’s got more reach than me and knows exactly where to inflict the most damage on just about anything, living or not. His weapon of choice is a 12- inch silver Bowie knife. Not really inconspicuous but deadly as hell. Just food for thought, dear reader.

Now, I’m not a poster child for the law abiding citizens of the world. I’ve been caught in enough scrapes that I’ve ruined sneakers from punishment runs and I’m pretty sure I have worn out at least one belt collectively from the Trio. Individually, the belts seem to hold up pretty well, even against resistant Winchester ass. Mostly the trouble I get in is just the Winchester in me. You can’t fight genetics. 

Sometimes though, the root of it falls on River’s shoulders. He’s got Winchester blood running through him so I imagine that nurture vs nature thing is true enough. I’m not saying it’s always his fault, not by any stretch of the imagination. But when he and I get together, we are Winchester Squared. As my dad and my uncle will tell you, when one or more Winchesters decide to make a ruckus, you know trouble is on the the way. Like a flare to a gas can. My dad and uncle are brothers, after all, and they have done enough damage individually or together to literally break the world then fix it back on more than one occasion. They have also suffered the repercussions through the years in many of the same ways River and I do. 

It’s a Winchester thing. 

Oh, River will tell you different about his involvement in our schemes. No doubt. But that’s just the geeky, tree hugger in him. Or self-preservation. I’m not sure. Either way it’s true, River will pretend he’s not involved in something even if it’s just because he doesn’t want to seem like the bad guy. He’s a little insecure sometimes. Don’t tell him I said that. He’d pound on me for sure.

And while on the subject of truthfulness, like I said, I’m just as guilty as River but sometimes River just eggs me on or something. He’s that quiet kid whose brain never stops working. Or maybe never works at all. It’s a puzzle to me why somebody so smart can come up with such stupid ideas. Then again, what does that say about me and my intellectual stability when I decide to go along with them?

So in the spirit of truthfulness or lack thereof, maybe I’ll just say this is tale of woe is a story. That’s right, a story. A work of fiction that in no way, shape or form could be misconstrued as anything but. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and yadayadayada. 

So if I had mythically picked up River on my way back from football practice, and he had figuratively jumped in with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Well, you know, fiction and everything. And if I had guzzled a bit of that SOCO, which truthfully is not very comforting in the least; it taste kinda like rubbing alcohol with a finish of Clorox. River was already a three sheets to the wind so you can see that this fictional tale was starting off poorly. Yeah, Riv bought the booze, but Coach had me pissed and tired. Once again, my big mouth had me running laps at practice and it was almost dark by the time I had hit the showers. So I was in a crappy mood and Riv wasn’t, courtesy of SOCO so why should he have all the fun? I’m pretty sure this was my headset going into our little foray.

Disclaimer needed. Please kids. Do not do any of these fictional things. These were done by professional fuck ups and that needs to be reiterated.

And so, I’m driving my little red truck. She’s old and battered but she’s a work horse. The seat is torn and there’s a permanent dent in the front where I hit a deer last fall. Good dinner that night, by the way. But I never banged the dent out. It’s a battle scar and there’s not a drop of rust anywhere so Gramps lets it be. 

“Your truck, boy.” He had said after I’d hosed off the blood, but he said it like he would no more drive a dented truck than join the Ice Capades. I had laughed then and said he had sure liked the venison though! He had - so he couldn’t much argue with that. But every time he sees that dent he kinda cringes. I can’t even imagine what Uncle Bobby would say. Something along the lines of “Boy, git that piece of shit truck fixed!” 

But I digress. Back to Riv and me.

So I’m driving the truck and we are both drinking outa that Southern Comfort bottle like it’s water. As an aside, after you indulge in it for a while, it doesn’t taste all that bad. 

Now, if ya’ll know anything about my family, you know the adults in the group have been known to drink a bit. In my dad’s case, more than a bit. My gramps had a few bad years where he and Jim, Jack and Jose were his best friends. That being said, they don’t appreciate Riv and I drinking. I get it, we’re both just 16 so we’re more than on the illegal side of adult beverages. I’ve got it. So you may also wonder why I didn’t care. Re-read the paragraph about football practice. I know. I know. Stupid. But that brings me back to paragraph one. 

No – you really don’t have to re-read them. Just know that sometimes, despite knowing, with complete and utter conviction that I’m fucking something up and that I in turn will find myself fucked up, well. I just do it anyway. 

Now on to my town. It really is just a dot on a road map. Maybe not even a dot, more like a coffee stain. And everyone – everyone knows Riv and me. That puts us in peril anytime we want to get into mischief. We are up close and personal friends with Jeff Banner, our local sheriff. Really close, like his son is one of our best friends. Oddly enough, he’s best friends with our fathers. Sometimes I can’t wrap my head around Winchesters hanging out with cops but there is a precedent to it. Jody Mills is a sheriff too and she’s been a family friend for years. What I’m getting at is, you would think that everyone knowing us would be a deterrent to poor life decisions. That and the all cops know you on a first name basis.

Apparently a fifth of Southern Comfort trumps brains. I looked at the SOCO. It was empty. How’d that happen?

“Dude!” Riv bellowed from the shotgun. 

I almost crashed into a telephone pole. Now that would’ve put a dent in my truck that would make the deer crash look like a mosquito kissed the windshield. As it was -the seat belt (yes, ever safe, we were both wearing seat belts) caught my forward momentum and stopped my head from smashing through the windshield like one of our hen’s eggs. Looking back, that might have been better than what we got into.

“Huh?” I answered astutely, rubbing absently at my sternum. That was gonna leave a bruise.

“Do you know what the plural of y’all is?”

I cocked my head in his direction, my brows furrowed, “Are you makin’ fun of Texas?”

River sobered up a moment and folded his fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “Scouts honor, Jamie, I would never besmirch the great state of Texas.” He was slurring his words but I understood them well enough. 

I glared at him, sort of. It’s hard to glare when you can’t focus your eyes. But he looked like he meant it. Both of him did. I did wonder though how he knew the Boy Scout salute. River had never seen the inside of anything that looked like a uniform. Maybe he was flipping me the bird? It was hard to tell with my Southern Comfort tinted glasses.

I decided he was being honest, I mean, what was the point of pissing me off? I was the driver, and as such, was automatically in charge. That was a given.

“Nope.” I answered slow. Then I backtracked, “Don’t know the plural of ‘y’all”

My Texas drawl seemed to thicken in my alcohol enhanced condition. I knew I had somehow turned one syllable words into two. That’s just my southern heritage, but oddly enough it was hard to the form words themselves. That was a bit of a revelation. It’s particularly hard for me to keep my mouth shuton most occasions, but tonight I had to really think it through to spit the words out.

Should’ve taken that for a warning. Jamie Winchester unable to speak? That’s like ducks not quacking or dogs not barking or Banshee’s not portending upcoming death.

“Wait for it…”, River taunted gleefully.

I waited.

“All y’all” River crowed and then slapped his jeans at the proclamation. 

“Get it?” he said, blue eyes dancing with his incredible wit. 

“All y’all,” He snorted with a laugh as whiskey shot out his nose and splashed on my right arm.

“Gross,” I said, wiping at the offending mess with a dirty rag I kept on the floor for just such situations.

“Damn that burns!” River sputtered and howled and I guess it did. Nasal passages were not designed for whiskey. I figured his olfactory senses were either now totally blown or maybe enhanced. I really have no idea what whiskey does to your nose. Something to think about.

So I did.

For about a three beat.

He coughed once and blew his nose on my rag.

“Feeling better, bro?” I said but I really didn’t care.

“I guess,” he sniffed hard and then grinned back at me, his long blonde bangs puffing out when he exhaled. Apparently my lack of caring went unnoticed. Truthfully though, in River’s state of intoxication he probably wouldn’t have noticed a caravan of monkeys frolicking down Main Street wearing pink tutus. 

Palm to my eyes, I rubbed hard and noticed that both Rivers had sort of come back together. That was an improvement, I figured. Three Winchesters had to be worse than two.

“Did ya like it?” River asked hopefully.

I replayed the last few minutes.

“Uh huh. All y’all. We may make a Texas boy of you yet.” 

River smiled sloppily, “I’m a Texas boy!”

“Yup, I think maybe the hippie in you has finally lit a shuck to parts unknown.”

“Lit a shuck? What the does that mean?” River asked earnestly as if he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to understand local colloquialisms.

“Hell if I know…I didn’t make it up.” I pondered for a long drawn out chunk of time but decided a teaching moment was not to be ignored. I stated with the utmost conviction, “It just means leavin’ a place fast.”

River seemed to consider this a minute. Or an hour. Not quite sure about that, but time was as woozy as my head was.

“I’m bored.” I said. I mean if it had been an hour and we had been driving for who knows how long, well being bored made sense. And Lord knows how long we were sitting on the side of the road after the near catastrophic collision with the telephone pole. 

“Kay,” River said then added, “Whatcha wanna do?”

We were sitting outside of Leroy’s Tree Trimming Service. I know that because I know Leroy. I also saw the sign.

“That,” I said.

“What?” River questioned.

“I want that.”

River looked at Leroy’s.

“You want to trim a tree?” Riv asked, obviously confused. I saw no reason for his confusion. It was so obvious!

I rolled my eyes. Boy, that boy could be dense.

“No, THAT!” I almost yelled and pointed at the cherry picker parked near Leroy’s place. If all y’all, don’t know what a cherry picker is, it’s a truck with a ladder like thing and a bucket on top for trimming branches or fixing power lines or whatever. 

“Always wanted to ride in one of those.” I said as if it was the top of my bucket list. HAHA bucket list. Get it! There’s a bucket on the cherry picker! Almost as good as “All y’all!” 

River looked strangely at me.

“Did I say that out loud.”

River nodded with a grin.

I decided to ignore it and him.

“How much fun would that be?” I asked looking up at the majestic cherry picker. 

“Dunno, looks like a dumb old truck to me.”

“No, Riv,” I said exasperated, “The bucket! Remember – Christ I even told you when I didn’t know I was telling you! It will be like we have our own little carnival ride right here at Leroy’s!”

I was so damn smart! The Fall Festival wouldn’t be in town for, I dunno, months or something. We could make our own rides!

River looked a little skeptical. I have no idea why. It was one of my best ideas EVER.

“How are we gonna get it?” River asked.

“Jump the fence and turn it on!”

Riv looked at the fence. It wasn’t all that high but I’m sure he was thinking his coordination was a bit impaired. I understood, but we were Winchesters and well, that little old fence shouldn’t be a deterrent. We’d scaled far worse when training!

“Okay.” Riv said, “But I go over first, so you can shove me up if I get stuck.”

Now the thought of my hands being that close to River’s junk was not appetizing but maybe I could shove him up with his sneakers instead of his ass. Or maybe he wouldn’t get stuck at all.

No such luck.

Halfway up the fence he slipped and I grabbed both ass cheeks and shoved him the rest of the way up. He grinned as he sort of balanced on top of the fence.

“Dude…I really think you should at least by me dinner if your gonna grope my ass like that.” 

He then promptly fell off the fence, much like the drunken kid he was.

“Owe,” River muttered from the other side.

I laughed my ass off.

Suddenly and with intent, I realized I had to redeem the Winchester boys with an effortless bounding over the fence. I backed up a few steps, gauged the fence then added a few more. 

That oughta do it.

I ran at the fence and jumped.

It would have been perfect except my aim was off and instead of nimbly grabbing the chain link, I smashed head first into it.

“FUCK!”

Luckily, my fingers knew what to do and before I bounced back onto the ground like ball off a wall, I managed to lock into that fence like it was a lifeboat on the Titantic. I dangled, a good four feet off the ground, clutching the fence but wanting desperately to grab my nose. I felt pretty sure it was dented when my head whacked into that chain link. 

River’s turn to laugh.

“Laugh it up, shithead. When I get to the other side of this fence, Imma pound you.”

Riv just laughed harder. 

That was the incentive I needed. With a manly grunt I hauled myself up half way then hand over handed it until I reached the top and swung over it, landing in a lump next to River. I’d like to think it was a graceful, athletic climb and dismount but if the landing was anything like the climb? Not likely. By now Riv was laughing so hard I thought maybe his liver would fall out. I’m not sure if livers have anything to do with laughing but if there is any justice in the world, they should.

I just lay on the ground a moment, cataloging my injuries like I would on a hunt. Nose? Not broken but I could feel the dribble of blood trickling down my lip. Knees? Well there were holes in my jeans that weren’t there a minute ago and I think something scraped my left side. I was breathing hard like I’d just been in a foot race with a Wendingo. 

Shut up. Wendingo’s are fast as shit.

But, I had prevailed.

River reached a hand down to pull me up but I batted it away. “Don’t need your help,” I muttered.

Riv was crying now. And hiccupping.

“Laugh it up surfer boy,” I slurred. Which was stupid because we lived no where near the ocean. In my defense though, that’s what he looked like. His blonde hair was sun streaked from hours in the Texas sun and Riv, wore it long, something that drove Gramps crazy, but Uncle Sam didn’t care and I think that maybe Uncle Sam even loved it that way. He certainly loved irritating Gramps because Riv was his kid and Gramps could disapprove but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

I staggered to my feet like a new born colt. Well, probably worse than a new born colt because they typically weren’t born drunk.

My eyes gazed at the cherry picker. She was a thing of beauty. And before you start yapping at me, I can’t help my affinity for vehicles. It’s another Winchester thing. 

Deal with it.

And so, as I remember it, the cherry picker gleamed in the soft glow of Leroy’s outside lights, her bright blue bucket was, I swear, almost winking at me! “Come, Jamie,” she almost purred, “I am a cherry picker,” I never knew why we gave feminine attributes to machines, but Baby was a girl so I figured Cherry was too! 

“So ya wanna drive?” I said. 

River looked at me uncertainly, “Dunno,” he said.

“Look I wanna be in the bucket so you have to drive the bottom part.”

River acquiesced. Whether it was because he agreed or simply that he didn’t’ have any good arguments to use, I was unsure. No matter, I was going to be riding in my cherry picker!

Riv and I stumbled to the vehicle and started it up. Gotta love those push button starts. I jumped into the bucket. Sort of. I’d like to think I jumped but it was more of a lean and fall move. Still, I was in the bucket. “Send her up!” and made a rolling forward gesture with my hands. 

Riv adjusted some controls around and got the base of the cherry picker moving forward. There were controls in the bucket too, so I started moving them around. I was going up! Now this beat any carnival ride!

Suddenly there was a throaty growl from Leroy’s property. It was Princess and Duchess, the two dobes who patrolled Leroy’s after hours. I grinned. They LOVED us. Made in the shade.

There was a piercing yell from River and I glanced down to see Princess or maybe Duchess jumping up into the cab of the vehicle and grabbing River’s pant leg, trying to drag him off the cherry picker. Duchess or Princess – whatever was barking and running around the machine in circles. Encouraging her sister with throaty growls and barks. 

River shook his right leg hard, trying to dislodge 85 pounds of Doberman.

“She won’t let go!”

I yelled from Cherry’s Bucket.

“PRINCESS, DUCHESS, good girls!”

“They are not good girls, Jamie! They’re trying to eat me!

I looked down at his hapless cousin, “I have no idea why, they love us!” Which was so true, we’d been playing with them since they were pups. Apparently, any loyalties they may have had to their playmates were ignored when their primary initiative, “Guard the yard” was being broached.

“I’m just trying to get on their good side. I don’t know why they are upset!” 

I crooned to the black and tan blurs that were attempting to drag River off the seat.

“Do you want a treat? Do you wanna treat pretty girl?” This was addressed to the dog that was now hanging from River’s ass.

I could see the Doberman’s stub tail wag frantically at the thought of a treat, but it did nothing to stop her from trying to pull River onto the ground and possible eat him.

How would I tell Uncle Sam about River’s untimely demise? “Uncle Sam, Princess ate him. M’sorry.”

Nope, not going to go over well.

A bulb switched on in my head, maybe a bulb would be a stretch, more like a glow light “Climb up here, RIv. They can’t get you in the bucket!”

River nodded enthusiastically and climbed up the arm to the bucket. There was a moment when I thought he might not make it. One of the girls lunged at him and Riv screamed as powerful Doberman jaws slashed at his ass, again! But despite the Doberman breed and it’s legendary agility and speed, she just couldn’t jump as high as she needed to. Or maybe she misjudged, or maybe she just didn’t want to really eat the treat giver. In any case, she wasn’t going to give up. She dangled for a hard minute, strong, Doberman jaws not really latched on to ass but more on the rapidly shredding jeans and then suddenly she wasn’t. She was standing on the ground with a good chunk of River’s pants, including his underwear

I attempted to haul Riv up into the bucket. Boy was heavier than he looked!

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” River muttered as he helped me by swinging his leg into the bucket and hooking it over the edge. Unfortunately, our combined weights caused the bucket same side, lean heavily to the right. I slid into River, frantically grabbing for non-existant hand holds. Now the bucket was lurching to the right, moments away from dumping us both.

“Get the fuck away,” River growled and I listened, climbing to the left side as River’s corded muscled shoulders strained to pull the rest of himself up in to the bucket. There was another deep swing to the right and then he was over and landed panting on the floor of the bucket. 

“You ok?” I asked.

Riv grunted but there was a slight nod.

“How about your ass?” 

River offered me a stunned glaze, “Good at the moment. A little bit of air conditioning I wasn’t planning on.”

I glanced at the ground.

Princess/Duchess had dropped nimbly to the ground and she and Duchess/Princess were dutifully shredding Riv’s jeans and a large wedge of underwear. They were grinning doggy grins as they pranced around the cherry picker, now driving without a driver and cruising through the yard.

“Dude.” I chortled.

“Shut up,”

“Your junk’s wavin’ in the wind.”

“Imma pound you, Jamie.”

I’m sure my next witty reply would have awesome but the words were never issued as the driverless cherry picker slammed into Leroy’s shop. There was a scraping noise, like nails down a chalkboard multiplied by a million, as the bucket tore along Leroy’s shop, sparks flying in the dark.

It was kind of pretty, I thought, like my own personal albeit, tiny fireworks display. I blame my stupidity on residual Southern Comfort high which was rapidly deteriorating.

Once again, my inebriated lack of insight was woefully inadequate for the potential danger to self ratio. My hand had been clutching on the left side of the bucket like a cowboy riding a rank bull. Muscle memory must trump drunkenness because I pulled it back without even realizing it, before my hand could be pinned between the shop and the bucket. 

Now that would’ve put a hurting on me!

River was unprepared for the smashing wall, much like I was but he was on the other side of the bucket and had other problems of his own. The impact caused him to fall out of the cherry picker and once again he was hanging by the edge as it swung to the right. The tilt-a-whirl bucket pitched to the right I crashed into him AGAIN. He yelped then screamed.

“FUCK YOU, JAMIE WINCHESTER!”

“ME?” I yelled back as he struggled valiantly to climb back in the cherry picker. I could hear Princess/Duchess and or Duchess/Princess snarling under him. Apparently that was enough incentive to finish his climb back in the bucket.

“I hate you,” River said with real malice in his voice, “You and your stupid, dumb-ass, PLANS!”

I slid down the careening bucket. Maybe the lower center of gravity would help? 

“Didn’t mean to do anything”, I sulked. “Besides,” I brightened, “You are the one who brought the whiskey into tonight’s little escapade.”

“True,” he growled, as the Cherry continued on her merry way, smashing a flood light attached to Leroy’s.

“But you are the dip shit who just had to ride in this demon possessed CHERRY PICKER!” He punched the side of the poor picker which did nothing but cause his hand to bleed. This was in addition to a nicked and dog bit ass, the drying blood on my nose and my bleeding knees. I had to admit the cherry picker was winning.

Then things went from bad to worse.

Leroy stepped out of the office, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and carrying a shotgun.

Who sleeps in his office, I wanted to say, but was having too many personal balance issues as the Cherry jounced along now heading for the fence.

With a roar (thank GOD not the gun) Leroy jumped in the bottom part of the picker and shut it off. 

Like an obedient dog, she sputtered once then stopped. The lack of forward momentum caused River and I both to slam into the back of the bucket. I knocked my head so hard on the side of the cherry picker I saw stars

Then the soft dark of blacking out.

Suddenly there was a bright light. I thought for a moment, maybe I was dead and it was Jesus calling me home. 

I swear it! He even knew my name!

“Jamie Winchester!” 

God sure sounded grumpy. 

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, ‘cause if God is mad at you and he’s well GOD then you should at least use your manners. 

The light was getting stronger. Yup, it was God.

“I’m comin', God!” I said. I figured even if He was pissed, he seemed to be wanting me.

Then I heard… my dad? “Don’t know if you’re going to God, but I sure know you are in for a come to Jesus meeting.”

I let that swirl around in my noggin a bit.

“Dad?”

“Yup.”

“You’re dead too?”

“Nope, and neither are you.” He paused a moment, “Yet.”

It was then I realized the “light” was my dad’s little flashlight and he was just checking my pupils.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good but it’s not your head you have to worry about.”

Suddenly, I was scared.

“I’m feelin’ a little weak, Dad. – I’m comin’ Jesus!” I added for effect.

Dad snorted.

I looked over at River who was leaning woefully up against Cherry. Uncle Sam had him by the collar but was talking quietly to Leroy.

“Don’t you worry about River, he’s your uncle’s problem. Plus, his ass is already bit up by Princess so he’s safe for the time being.”

“Huh?” I queried.

“Your cousin is in as much trouble as you but Sam has to wait a bit before he tans his hide.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe you are concussed,” Dad said and then looked back into my eyes with the flashlight.

“Nope,” he said, “Pupils equal round and reactive. Your head’s just fine but your butt? That’s gonna be hurting.”

“Huh?”

Dad shook me then. Not hard - but enough.

Then he stood, pulled me up and my pants down. Then his own belt came off. There in Leroy’s parking lot he gave me that come to Jesus meeting he was talking about.

I yipped, spun around and tried to avoid his belt on my tighty whities. Don’t judge! They were just for football and I hadn’t done laundry yet!

“Dad! I’m sorry!”

“Okay”, Dad said but kept right on smacking.

I don’t know if it was my twirling around like a ballerina or the aforementioned tilt-a-whirl session with Cherry but I started to feel sick.

“DAD!” I yelled then stopped running around like a chicken and puked on his boots.

“JAMES WINCHESTER!” Dad bellowed. Then he and me really went to see Jesus. Oh God, why couldn’t I just be DEAD.

Dad was rockin' that belt. He nailed every part of my ass and managed to tag the top of my thighs too. The whole time River just stood and watched. And Leroy. And Mr. Jeff, the Sheriff and oddly enough, Princess and Duchess, who were now sitting at River’s feet begging to get neck scratches.

“What in heaven or hell lead you to believe you could drive drunk?” Dad bellowed. He didn’t wait for an answer but I didn’t have one.

I tried to dodge that belt but he was havin’ none of it. He sat his butt down on Cherry and pulled me over his lap like a six-year-old then proceeded to blister my ass. I yelled, I cried, I yelped. None of it mattered. I didn’t even care about the audience. 

He stopped a three beat then started in again.

“What made you think you could break into Leroy’s and drive his equipment around DRUNK?”

I didn’t answer again. I couldn’t.

“Do you hear me talkin’ to you, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I tried, “Just didn’t know you wanted an answer.”

That seemed to piss him off more.

Finally, he stopped. Then he pulled me up and frog-marched me over to Leroy.

I was sobbing, no doubt about that.

“Sorry, Mr. Leroy.”

Dad swatted me hard on my rump.

“I’ll pay for the damages.” I hiccupped and wiped snot off of my nose.

Dad swatted me again. Fuck!

“I’ll work off whatever you want, whenever you want.”

Leroy nodded and then growled. “Don’t want you near my cherry picker, boy. Don’t even want you in my yard but I reckon you can push a broom.”

I nodded.

Dad swatted.

“Yes, sir!” I bellowed like a new recruit.

Leroy pointed to Riv and Uncle Sam. “All y’all figure it out. M’ goin’ to bed.” With that he whistled to Princess and Duchess and headed back in the shop.

Dad grabbed me by the neck and half dragged half pushed me over to where River and Uncle Sam were standing. Jeff Banner was glaring at Riv and I both.

“JR’s lucky he wasn’t involved in this little cluster fuck,” He turned to me and Riv, “Leave that truck here, you ain’t drivin’ like that.” Then he spun on his heels and headed to his squad car.

Uncle Sam opened the back of Baby and pushed us in. Dad jumped in the driver seat and Uncle Sam in shotgun.

No one said a word until we got home and then it was Uncle Sam who just pointed at the house and said, “You two, grounded. Get to bed.”

We jumped out of the car, me slower than River and jogged up the steps to the house, slid past Gramps and ran up to our room.

With the door safely shut, I dropped my underwear and slid into soft sweats.

River did the same but I noticed no blistered ass.

“How come?” I started but River just glared.

“I have to wait,” he said to my unanswered question.

“Why?”

He turned around pulled down his sweats and I was fully able to see his ass. Two deep bite marks.

“Sheeiit,” I said

“That’s right. Damn dog bit me. Dad says he can’t whoop me if my ass is already injured. Isn’t that the dumbest thing? He wants to wait till I’m all healed up THEN beat me black and blue.”

“That sucks,” I said but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to lay in my bed and whimper.

River grumbled, crawled into bed and turned out the light. “He said paybacks were a bitch so I basically get my ass kicked twice.”

I snickered then. Just a little because I felt too miserable to do much else.

“You got your ass kicked by a dog.”

River growled,” And you got your ass kicked outside on Leroy’s parking lot, with Leroy, Mr. Jeff, my dad and those piece of shit Dobermans watching. At least I get mine handed to me in private.”

“Point taken,” I said and curled over to go to sleep.

“Hey Jamie,” came from the other side of the room.

“Yeah.”

“Was it worth it?”

Usually, I had some smart ass remark but I couldn’t think of one.

“Nope, not this time. Cherry wasn’t all she was cracked up to be.”

“Plus between all the extra work at Leroy’s and everything else, I doubt I’ll have any free time for months.”

I could see Riv nod from his own bunk, “I think that was the point.”

“Roger that,” I said, slipping into military speak. 

“Night, Jamie.”

“Same to you, nothin’ good about it though.”

“Agreed.”

And that’s all I’m saying about my mythical story. Nothing else. Except maybe that River never gave Princess or Duchess a treat again.

I couldn’t blame him.

End.


End file.
